


Comfortable (sequel to An Understanding)

by shakti108



Category: Bon Jovi (Band)
Genre: 1980s, Angst and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-09 13:45:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18639298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakti108/pseuds/shakti108
Summary: He knew some indisputable truths in life -- like the earth was round, the sun rose in the east, and Richie Sambora loved sex.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Just thought I'd mention, I'm not nearly as prolific as I seem. I've just been slowly migrating old stories from rockfic over here :)

"Do you think I'm white toast?"

It was a question that had been skittering around his head for a while. But he'd never asked it, partly because he knew what the answer would be.

_Of course not._ Or maybe, _You're crazy._ Or just, _Huh?_

Mostly, though, the thought of asking made him feel pathetic. He was supposed to pretend it didn't bother him -- the bullshit from critics and self-appointed bastions of the Institution of Rock And Roll. And usually, he was very good at pretending. But for some reason, at three a.m. in a Nashville hotel room, the words had finally slipped out.

"Huh?" Richie replied as he sat down at the foot of the bed.

Jon would've smiled at the predictability if he weren't wallowing in self-consciousness. 

"You know," he prompted, before dropping into a chair by the window. "The white toast thing. You think it's true?"

Richie pulled a face, then started the elaborate process of removing his boots. To Jon, they were some combination of cowboy and astronaut boots. When he wanted to annoy Richie, he called him Space Cowboy. But he didn't want to annoy him at the moment -- at least not over footwear.

"You know I try to ignore that shit," he defended. "But … I dunno. Sometimes it pisses me off."

As lame as the statement was, it also brought a little relief. If he was going to admit his insecurities to anyone, it would be Space Cowboy.

"Fuck 'em," Richie said simply, yanking off the first boot.

There was no need to clarify the _them,_ and again Jon almost smiled. 

"I know," he mumbled, picking an imaginary piece of lint from the chair arm. 

He knew. The problem wasn't that he cared about _them_ and what they thought. The problem was, they could still be right.

Richie had set to work on the second boot, hair falling forward to obscure his face. It was a good time to test the waters, Jon decided.

"I know," he repeated. "But do _you_ think I am?"

Richie's fingers stilled as he glanced up. "Of course not. Why are you even asking?"

Jon shrugged reflexively. He needed to know something, but the question itself was humiliating.

Richie sat up and scooted to face him. "Why?"

He rested his elbows on his knees and gave Jon that look -- the one that said he wasn't getting out of the conversation he'd started. 

Jon sighed. "Well. I was wondering if you think …"

He felt like a fucking idiot, but Richie was watching him, waiting for him to get on with it. So he tried again.

"I was wondering if you think I'm, y'know … boring …" He closed his eyes and let the dam break. "Do you think I'm boring when we're together?"

He waited a beat before opening his eyes to find Richie staring, unblinking.

_Oh, Christ._

Richie shook his head a little. "What? Why would you think that?"

Jon shrugged again. "It's just a thought I had -- It's not like I think that all the time or something."

Richie resumed staring, and Jon was suddenly wishing for that proverbial hole in the ground to swallow him up.

"I mean, do I seem bored?" Richie asked, distress creeping into his voice and eyes.

_Shit._

Jon shifted forward in his seat. "No. It's nothing like that." 

And it _wasn't_ like that, exactly. He knew some indisputable truths in life -- like the earth was round, the sun rose in the east, and Richie Sambora loved sex. So no, he never sensed outright boredom during the act.

But sometimes he had to ponder the possibility that their monogamy experiment was getting old, at least for one of them. Sometimes when he glanced to his right and caught Richie flicking his tongue at the front-row girls flashing their tits, he couldn't help thinking there was a true want behind it. 

Richie eyed him skeptically. "So why are you asking?"

Jon blew out a breath. "I dunno, man. All that shit about me being a bland pretty boy. I guess it made me think about … how I act, y'know?"

He spared a second to wonder if this could get any more degrading.

Richie squinted at him. "How you act? What do you mean?"

Jon scrubbed a hand over his face, mainly as a buffer against those eyes. "I just … I can't explain it, OK?"

"Jonny," Richie groaned. "Don't start."

He felt a flare of annoyance at the implication. "What? You're asking me why, so I'm telling you."

Richie flopped onto his back. "I know," he sighed, rubbing at his eyes. "And it's like always. You're making up shit to worry about."

"Making shit up?" Jon demanded, fanning the little flame in his belly. "Could you blow it off if everyone was calling you white bread? Or phony? Or soulless?"

Richie laughed softly, humorlessly. "Guess it beats being ignored."

Jon automatically opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came to him. Because what the fuck?

He walked over to the bed and crossed his arms as he looked down at Richie. "Seriously? You didn't notice that pack of wild females trying to claw your clothes off in the lobby?"

Richie gave him an odd little smile. "Because you were too fast for them."

Jon rolled his eyes, but Richie kept talking. "And anyway, that's not what I meant."

"What then?"

For a moment, it looked like Richie was considering his answer, but then he just reached up to take Jon's hand. "Nothing. You're not white toast, OK?"

Jon refused to smile, because he was not a sap. "Jesus," he grumbled. "Forget I said anything."

"Really," Richie persisted, giving his hand a light squeeze. "You're like a fucking Spanish omelet."

"OK, shut up," Jon bitched as he covertly ran his thumb across the warm skin underneath it.

Richie wisely ignored the insult and the affection, and instead tugged on his arm. "Wanna order room service? I suddenly have a craving for breakfast food."

Jon shook his head and sat down. "Why don't you just take that other ugly-ass boot off?" He stretched out on his side and propped his head on his hand. "And maybe your clothes, too."

Richie craned his neck to look at him. "Sounds boring."

Jon lowered his voice an octave. "Lights out, missionary style. All night, baby."

Richie smiled before looking away. "Then I can have breakfast?"

"Mm-hmm."

"OK, then."

He sat up and began to peel away the layers. As Jon studied his back, he was struck by how comfortable he'd become with watching. It was so different now from the first few times, when he had to look down, and his hands trembled, and his gut twisted in on itself.

He supposed that was a good thing.

Because he still felt a thrill ripple through him when Richie turned to him and pressed his naked body against his clothed one. Still shivered in anticipation when Richie nuzzled his neck and asked him what he wanted. 

Still savored the heat under his hands as he skimmed his palms down the length of Richie's back and the curve of his ass. A familiar path that drew a familiar muted moan. And there was nothing wrong with familiar, Jon told himself -- especially if it felt this fucking good.

It wasn't until minutes later, as their legs tangled and heat pooled in the pit of his belly, that another truth occurred to him: It was almost always Richie who asked.

_What do you want?_

He wasn't sure why, or why his brain had chosen that moment to surface the thought. But he did know he hadn't come up with a new answer in a while.

Maybe, he realized, that needed to change.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Next time they ask me if there's a lucky girl, I'll say she's six feet tall and has a dick."

Richie ordered a Spanish omelet, no toast -- to un-subtly drive his point home, Jon assumed.

And usually he appreciated how they could tell each other things without words, since serious conversations didn't come easily. Sometimes he thought that was weird for two songwriters. But maybe that was why they were songwriters.

This time, though, the gesture didn't do much for him. He was too stuck in his head to be swayed by clever room-service choices.

"What's wrong?" Richie asked before stuffing his face with an overloaded forkful of egg.

He was sitting against the headboard, legs stretched out, plate on his lap -- the picture of contentment, except for the way his eyes narrowed as he looked at Jon.

"Nothing."

Richie kept studying him as he finished chewing. "You're not drinking your coffee," he observed.

Jon shrugged. "You gonna be ready to leave soon?"

They had to tape an interview with a local news station, and he was already dreading the questions. Lately, they'd revolved around his hair and his love life. God knew he had to dodge the second subject, so he'd been suffering through a lot of hair-centric banter.

Richie nodded. "Just hafta put on the old Stetson, right?"

"Well, clothes would be good." Jon looked pointedly at Richie's boxers.

"Eh."

"A shower and a toothbrush would help, too."

Richie bobbed his head a little before shoveling up the last of his omelet. 

It would just be the two of them doing the interview, which was happening more and more as the tour went on. The other guys knew the deal: Jon was the face of the band, and Richie was … the Other One. He honestly wasn't sure if the guys minded the lack of attention or appreciated it. He supposed both could be true.

He set his half-full cup down and got up from the chair. "I'm jumping in the shower -- So if you're showering here, you're gonna have to be fast. No deep-conditioning shit."

"Or," Richie said brightly, "we could shower together."

Jon stopped in his tracks and looked over to see Richie smiling innocently, a glint of amusement in his eyes. He wasn't sure if the suggestion was a joke or not; they'd never done anything like that. But his cock was expressing its interests -- which told him it was a bad idea.

He cleared his throat. "There's no way that'll be faster, and you know it."

The smile faded, just a little. "You're probably right."

Jon nodded and went on his way. It was the responsible answer. And if he felt a little pang of disappointment in himself, he decided to ignore it.

******

"Why was I even there?" Richie grumbled as soon as they crossed the threshold into Jon's room.

Jon shut the door. "To look cute?"

"Fuck off." Richie tossed his hat aside and belly-flopped onto the bed.

Jon shrugged then wandered over to his usual spot by the window. "You didn't have to just sit there. You could've said something."

Richie pulled a pillow under his head. "I guess I was too riveted by the discussion of your hair-care regimen."

"OK, _you_ can fuck off," Jon said as he collapsed into a chair. "I don't get to choose the questions."

"I know," Richie muttered, dialing down the sarcasm. "But you choose the answers."

Jon scowled. "So what am I supposed to do? Tell the nice TV lady to fuck herself?"

Richie lifted his head. "I would do anything to witness that."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "That so?"

Richie smiled coyly before dropping his head to the pillow again. "Seriously, though. You could just say you wanna talk about the music, not your hair. Or your face. Or your ass."

Jon shifted in his seat. He didn't need to be lectured by Richie of all people. "I don't get a lot of ass questions," he pointed out.

"You know what I mean."

Jon sighed. "Well, I don't know what you want me to do. I can't be a dick about it. You know the charming thing is part of our image."

Richie propped his head on his hand and gave him that _ah-ha_ look -- the one that was annoying as hell. "See? You don't hate it as much as you say. You milk it."

Jon felt a heat building in his face. "Yeah, I have to. And you've all benefited from it. So don't bitch at me."

"I know," Richie agreed, mildly. "But it still sucks to sit there like an idiot while some chick asks you about your hair. Or what lucky girl you're dating."

Jon felt a twinge of guilt, but it was quickly overwhelmed by irritation. Because yeah, some of their interviews could be difficult for Richie to stomach -- but usually he had fun, and he actually got to talk about music.

"Quit complaining," Jon griped. "At least you're the _musician._ "

"Oh, right." Richie held an invisible mike to his lips. "Richie Sombrero, what do _you_ think of Jon's hair?" he said in an appalling falsetto. "Is it the best hair in rock-and-roll today?"

Jon rolled his eyes. "OK, the host of _Mornin', Nashville_ does a bad interview. Get over it."

Richie flipped onto his back. "Never mind. Let's drop it, OK?"

"Fine by me."

Jon turned his head, pretending to be consumed by the view outside, until the room became uncomfortably silent. 

"You think it's my fault?" he asked, keeping his eyes on the glass-and-steel office building across the street. "The vapid pretty-boy stuff?"

There was a pause before Richie answered. "No. You can't help the way you look."

"But you said I could be different during the interviews." He tried to keep his voice neutral, like he was just recapping and not arguing.

"I … I'm just saying shit 'cause I'm annoyed." Jon heard the bed shift and knew Richie was probably sitting up. "It's not your fault the TV lady was a dipshit."

He turned and saw that Richie was biting his lip, looking contrite. And he had to admit it was a little satisfying. But it also made him feel like a jerk.

He stood and walked over to sit on the edge of the bed. "Next time they ask me if there's a lucky girl, I'll say she's six feet tall and has a dick."

Richie snorted then dipped his chin, hiding the obvious pleasure that idea brought.

"Would that make you feel better?" Jon asked, realizing, as he said it, he wasn't entirely joking.

Richie just lay back down. "I don't need to feel better. I'm fine."

Jon stretched out next to him. "I don't believe you."

Richie ignored the words and tossed an arm across Jon's belly. "We should shave your head," he said. "It would solve a lot of problems."

"Maybe," Jon murmured, accepting that Serious Conversation time was over.

"It'd be a real time-saver."

"Mmm."

"You'd save thousands on hairspray."

"Yep."

"The ozone layer could be restored."

Jon chuckled. "You can shut up now."

"'Kay."

He started running his fingertips along Richie's forearm, and after a while the repetitive motion helped rein his thoughts in.

"I'm sorry you had to sit through that."

Richie gripped him a little tighter. "Not your fault."

"Yeah," Jon said to the ceiling. "I guess."

He kept gliding his fingertips back and forth until they both fell asleep.

*****

"Wanna take that shower?" he whispered, close to Richie's ear.

Richie took a step back and glanced at the communal showers, furrowing his brow in confusion. "Didn't we just do that?"

Jon took a quick scan of the dressing room, to see if anyone was paying attention, then leaned in again. 

"You're still dirty. I can help you reach a few places."

He pulled back and would've laughed at Richie's stunned expression if he weren't a fucking ball of nerves. He had no idea what he was doing, but his post-show adrenaline was fueling a drive he would normally suppress.

Richie chuckled awkwardly and looked side to side. "Um. Are you high?"

Jon shook his head and ran his knuckles down Richie's arm, feeling a slight shiver at his touch. "Just go in, to the back, and turn the water on. I'll be there in a sec."

Richie opened and closed his mouth like a guppy. 

"Go," Jon said through gritted teeth.

Richie stared for a moment before shucking his towel and scurrying away without another word. Jon was frozen in place as he watched him, a tingling spreading across his skin. He'd been half-convinced Richie would refuse, so he needed time to soak in the reality that this was happening.

He flinched as Alec's cackling broke through the noise in his mind.

Jesus Christ, what was he doing? If they got caught …

_Fuck it._

He stepped into the showers and hung up his towel -- because unlike Richie, he wasn't a slob. When he crept to the back, toward the sound of running water, his knees almost buckled at the sight there. Richie was standing under the spray, head bowed, one palm pressed against the tile, the other hand stroking his shaft.

"Starting without me?" Jon said hoarsely, taking hold of himself and moving forward on unsteady legs. "That's just rude."

Richie brought his other hand to the tile. "What took you so long?" he whispered breathlessly.

Jon came up behind him and wrapped an arm around his waist, still working himself with the other hand. "It was … thirty seconds."

Richie laughed softly, and Jon darted his eyes around the space. They couldn't be seen from the doorway, but there was definitely a risk of being heard. And if anyone came in, they were screwed.

He pressed his lips to Richie's ear. "Gotta be quiet. Can you?"

He held back a yelp as Richie suddenly turned and switched their positions, pushing him against the cold tile and flashing that wicked little smile that always sent a jolt to Jon's cock.

"Can you?"

"Hope so," Jon whispered as Richie cupped his face and dove in for a kiss.

Which was nice, he thought, as those soft lips moved against his. But their situation had an urgency that was both terrifying and insanely arousing -- and he needed to get on with it.

Jon broke the kiss and ran his hands down Richie's slick back. "Need you," he breathed, before gripping his ass and pulling him in roughly.

As they rocked their hips together, Richie shut his eyes and bit down hard on his lip.

"Jesus," he gasped. "Jonny."

"Gotta be fast, too," Jon encouraged, moving more insistently.

Richie laid his forehead on the tile next to Jon's head. "Wh-what do you want?"

Jon squeezed the flesh under his hands and felt a sharp exhale on his shoulder.

"Just this."

He could hear voices and laughter echoing around them, and the knowledge that the other guys were _right there_ made his gut turn in cartwheels. 

As the sweet friction built, Jon pressed his lips together and breathed heavily through his nose. But it wasn't enough -- there was no way he could keep quiet.

"Fuck," he grunted, grabbing the sides of Richie's head and shoving his tongue into his mouth. 

He felt the vibration of Richie's moan in his throat and chest, and in the next instant he was being pressed into the tiles so hard he wondered if his lungs would have enough space. Without thinking, he brought his hands to Richie's upper back and dug his nails into the wet skin. 

That pulled a guttural sound that was mostly muffled by Jon's tongue. It probably wasn't displeasure, he decided, since Richie started grinding against him even more frantically.

Just when Jon started to get dizzy from lack of air, Richie backed off a bit -- making enough room to snake his arms around him and mouth the side of his neck. Jon barely stifled a groan as Richie's mouth found _that_ spot, and their rhythm suddenly became erratic.

"Fuck," Jon gasped again, feeling that familiar pressure welling up deep inside. He latched his mouth onto the muscle above Richie's collarbone, needing a barrier against the sounds pushing to escape.

Dimly, he realized they were basically in a bear hug as they furiously moved against each other. And it was somehow ridiculous and the most erotic thing he'd ever done. 

But it wasn't the friction, or the danger, or the adrenaline that finally tipped him over the edge. It was the moment when Richie's lips brushed his ear and he heard his own name, whispered so softly he barely heard it. 

And then he was closing his eyes, seeing colors mix under his eyelids -- the sounds from just outside circling around him but not concerning him. They might as well have been coming from the fucking moon.

They stayed in that embrace, steam wrapping around them, until their breathing started to slow in tandem. And as the reality of what they'd done set in, Jon started to feel the kind of giddiness he usually only got from alcohol.

His fingers were shaking a little as he threaded them into Richie's soaking-wet hair, kissing him on the cheek before moving to his ear.

"White toast, my ass," he said lowly. "That was definitely not boring."

He grinned, anticipating some saucy comeback, but only felt the grip around his waist slowly loosen. When he pulled back, Richie just looked at him in silence.

"What?" he whispered, feeling a sinking sensation in his belly.

Richie shook his head. "Nothing."

Jon jerked a little as Dave's voice boomed, and laughter bounced off the walls around them.

Richie stepped back, getting under the spray to wash the evidence from his body.

"I'll leave first," he said, refusing to look Jon in the eyes. "Keep the water going for a while."

He turned and padded away without looking back, and Jon simply stood there, wondering what the fuck just happened. He wasn't sure how long he remained stuck, but he waited until the water ran cool before he shut it off.

*****

"Why are you mad at me?" he hissed, pushing past Richie as soon as he opened the door to his room.

"Hey, Jonny," Richie mock-greeted as he shut the door. "Wanna come in?"

Jon turned around and crossed his arms. "Hi. Why are you mad at me?"

Richie matched his stance. "I'm not. I just don't wanna be around you because I might punch you in the face."

Jon felt his mouth fall open. "The hell? What did I do?"

Richie dropped his arms and looked skyward. "What the fuck were you thinking? What if they'd caught us?"

Jon leaned forward a bit, not sure he was hearing correctly. "You do remember being a willing participant, right? _Very_ fucking willing."

Richie glared at him, and Jon couldn't remember the last time he'd seen him so pissed. "Yeah, I was willing," he admitted. "But that's because I actually thought you wanted me that bad."

Jon just stared, honestly at a loss. "What are you talking about?"

Richie bit his lip and looked down at a spot by Jon's feet. "You were just trying to prove a point to yourself. That you're not boring, or whatever. You could've pulled anybody into that shower."

Jon kept gaping as a wave of emotions hit in rapid succession. The only one that stuck was anger.

"Oh, right," he spat out. "If Teek had been standing by me, it would've been him. Are you nuts?"

"Me?" Richie asked incredulously. "You're the one who obsesses over the shit some random stranger says about you. You just used me to prove some stupid fucking point that only matters in your own head."

Jon held his hands up, palms splayed. " _Used_ you? You are nuts."

Richie hung his head, and Jon decided to wait. He wasn't in the best frame of mind to direct the conversation. When Richie spoke again, his voice was steadier. 

"What if they'd caught us? You risked that just to feed your ego."

Jon found himself staring again, because somehow he couldn't conjure up the words to argue.

"It's always about you," Richie murmured before walking past him, toward the bed.

Jon felt a little stab in his chest -- because the words weren't true, but they weren't that far from the truth, either. 

He turned and watched Richie crawl into bed, where he'd laid his acoustic. 

"Can we do this tomorrow?" he asked Jon quietly, pulling the guitar onto his lap. "I was working on something."

Jon nodded, but his feet were lead. "Tomorrow?" he heard himself say, lamely.

"Yeah."

He nodded again. As he walked away, it was to the opening chords of something he didn't know.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Didn't you ever play Three Minutes in Heaven?"

It was definitely a sunglasses day, Jon thought as he gazed at the profound circles under his eyes. 

He had that special bloodshot look of someone who'd spent the whole night drinking and smoking -- or possibly having shower sex with his best friend, who then got pissed over the shower sex and accused him of being a self-absorbed tool.

Either one.

"I'm an idiot," he told his reflection. "I'm sorry."

_Sounds fake._

"I'm an idiot," he repeated, softening his voice. "I'm sorry."

_That's even worse._

"Fuck."

He sighed, staring at his drawn face, then tried again. "I'm so sorry I caused you to have that fucking amazing orgasm last night. Forgive me?"

That at least sounded more like him. He had a feeling, though, it would not improve his standing. He shook his head -- he couldn't even successfully apologize to a mirror.

A soft sound from the room, maybe a knock on the door, pulled him out of his self-loathing. When he stepped out of the bathroom, he heard it again: It was definitely a knock, and it sounded just like the Guilty Guitarist knock he'd grown to recognize.

He strolled to the door so he didn't come off as desperate, and when he opened it, there stood Richie, looking just as bad as he did. 

"Hey," Richie said, barely making eye contact before looking down. 

"Hey." Jon attempted to sound casually surprised, but he was pretty sure he failed miserably. 

Richie shifted his weight between his feet. "Can I come in?"

"Oh." Jon moved aside. "Yeah."

Richie took a few steps into the room then turned to face him. That's when Jon really took notice of his appearance -- ripped sweats and an old Lennon t-shirt, hair sticking out at physics-defying angles. He looked like he'd just rolled out of bed and kept rolling to Jon's room. 

"Did I wake you up?"

Jon glanced down at his own disheveled situation. "I didn't really sleep," he admitted, too tired to pretend otherwise.

Richie averted his eyes. "Me, either."

It was oddly unsatisfying to know that, Jon thought.

"So," Richie began, scratching at an eyebrow. "I just wanted to … I'm sorry I got so pissed last night. Maybe I overreacted."

And just like that, Jon wanted to drag him into the shower again. But he resisted his instinct to step closer.

"No, you didn't," he said in a rush. "I'm an idiot. I'm sorry."

Richie looked at him, and Jon winced a little at the blatant surprise in his eyes. 

"Oh. That's, um … Thanks."

Jon nodded. He had no idea what the protocol was for apologizing to your guitarist for ill-advised semi-public sex. So he hoped that was enough.

"Rich?"

"Yeah?"

"Wanna sit down?" He ventured a small smile. "This is getting weird."

To his relief, Richie smiled back. "Yeah, it's really awkward."

He waited to see where Richie would sit, and for once, he chose the chair by the window. Jon plopped onto the bed and sat cross-legged, feeling a little thrown off by the minor switch in dynamics. He didn't have the distraction of the world outside the window, and he wasn't sure where to look. So he decided to speak to fill the void.

"For what it's worth," he said, "I wasn't _trying_ to be a douchebag."

Richie tapped his fingers on the chair arm. "I know."

He waited while Richie found that same chair lint that plagued Jon in hotel rooms everywhere. As Richie spoke again, he kept his eyes on his task.

"I just think -- I think you get caught up in the image."

Jon worked his jaw, unsure what to make of that. "You think I'm shallow?" he asked, trying to keep any emotions out of his voice.

Richie shook his head. "No. I think you worry too much."

Jon couldn't argue that point.

"Who cares if there are strangers who don't like you? Or us?"

He couldn't argue that one, either.

"And if you don't wanna answer questions about your hair, then don't."

Jon sensed his face starting to color. He hated feeling so stupid.

Richie returned to tapping, a more intricate rhythm this time. "But you know," he went on, hesitantly, "it's OK if you like the attention, too. The good attention, I mean."

"I know," Jon replied, sounding more defensive than he'd intended.

Richie smiled wanly. "I just mean … You don't have to pretend you hate it when the cute TV lady flirts with you."

Jon rolled his eyes.

"Or when people talk about your looks," Richie continued, ignoring him. "Just 'cause you like it doesn't mean you're shallow or … whatever. It's nice to hear that stuff sometimes."

Jon realized he was staring now, and Richie must have, too, because he abruptly stopped talking and looked out the window. Jon just kept watching for a moment, struck by how unobservant he'd been.

"Rich?"

"Hmm." 

"What about you? Do you hate it sometimes?"

Richie shifted in his seat. "Hate what?"

"The whole sales pitch. Doing it over and over. Do you hate it sometimes?"

"Sometimes? Yeah."

Jon leaned his elbows onto his knees. "Why?"

Richie laughed softly. "You know. It gets annoying."

Jon leaned a little farther forward. "Last night you said it's always about me. What did you mean?"

This time Richie rolled his eyes. "I didn't mean it. I was pissed."

"Well, you must've said it for a reason."

"Oh, jeez." Richie sunk a little lower in the chair. "Yeah, I guess."

"So?" Jon pressed.

Richie lifted a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's just … a little harder lately."

He started bouncing a leg -- a nervous habit, Jon knew. He'd once read that some people do it to "self-soothe." He'd never told Richie, though, because he'd hate that.

"How come?" 

The bouncing sped up. "Well. It used to be, I'd get jealous sometimes. Over all the attention you get."

Jon nodded. He'd known that for a long time, but it wasn't something they talked about. 

"But you don't anymore?" he asked, nudging. 

Richie peered at him. "No, I still do. But now it's like… Sometimes I also get jealous because … I kinda want you to myself."

He smiled sheepishly. "This is fucking embarrassing. I hate you."

Jon returned the smile, feeling a warmth spreading across his chest. "I hate you, too."

There was nothing shocking in what Richie had said. Jon knew it could be hard for him to live in his shadow, and he knew it was even more complicated now. But hearing him say the words out loud …

"I'm sorry," he said impulsively.

Richie shrugged. "What's to be sorry about? That's just how it is." A second later, he held up his hands, like he was trying to ward something off. "Oh, god. Please don't get a complex about it."

Jon frowned. "Shut up."

Richie dropped his hands and gave a firm nod. "That's more like it."

Almost instantly, Jon felt his face softening toward a smile again. And it occurred to him that Richie could drive him crazy like no one else -- but more often, he pulled him back from the brink of insanity like no one else.

"You want breakfast?" he asked.

Richie sat up, clearly relieved the third degree was over and it was time to eat. "Yeah. Let's get a pot of coffee."

"Absolutely," Jon agreed, moving toward the phone.

"And pancakes. I need sugar … And bacon. I need salt."

"Sounds good."

"And, like, a _shitload_ of toast. White toast."

Jon halted and turned to find the bitch smirking. He schooled his features and nodded. "Not sure it comes by the shitload. I'll ask."

The smirk shifted to a genuine smile, and Jon ducked his head. It was possible, he thought, that breakfast was becoming his favorite meal of the day.

*****

It was probably a terrible idea, considering what happened the night before. But he'd decided to fully commit to the practice of caring less. At least about certain things. At least for this last night in Nashville.

So he followed Richie into his changing space backstage, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn't think anyone noticed -- he did still care enough to glance around -- but even if they had, fuck 'em.

Richie almost jumped when he turned to find Jon in his face.

"Christ. What are you doing?" 

"You might need help changing." He brought his hands to Richie's face and laid one on him, because time was of the essence. 

Richie had barely responded when Jon pulled back and grinned. "This shirt is really tricky."

He yanked on one of the tank top straps and moved his lips down the side of Richie's neck, tasting and breathing sweat, smoke and something indefinable. 

"Jonny," Richie said shakily. "Encore's in, like, three minutes."

It was a token protest, though, because he was already tilting his head to give Jon easier access.

"Didn't you ever play Three Minutes in Heaven?" Jon teased, reaching down to cup him through his leather pants.

Richie hissed and instinctively pressed into Jon's hand. "It's -- _ah_ \-- seven minutes, and I invented it. C-can't do much in three."

Jon backed them up until Richie's legs hit a folding table, and a vital hair tool fell into the abyss.

"We don't go on till I say," he insisted, tugging Richie's shirt up. "Lie down."

"Where? This fucking Barbie table?"

"Ground," Jon said, trying to pull him down.

"You crazy?" Richie accused, even as he pulled his shirt off then wrapped his arms around Jon. "There's no time."

"I know," Jon murmured, dipping to mouth along his collarbone. 

"You … want me to go out there with a hard-on, don't you?"

Jon smiled against his skin, then slid a hand to his ass, pulling him in closer. Richie groaned and fisted the hem of Jon's t-shirt, dragging it up as much as he could with their bodies pressed together.

Realistically, Jon knew they couldn't go much farther before someone came looking for them. Part of him truly didn't care. But then there was reality.

He laid his head on Richie's shoulder, letting his breath steady. "Don't ever think I don't want you, OK?"

He felt Richie's body tense. "What?"

Jon kept his face hidden. "Last night. You said I didn't really want you that bad." He tightened his grip even more. "But I did. I always do."

Richie made a little choking sound and dug his fingers into Jon's back, almost painfully. "Fuck. You're gonna kill me."

Jon kissed his shoulder. "Hope not."

He heard Dave's bellow through the curtain, where the other guys shared a changing space. But he was quickly reeled back in by the fingertips skating up and down his spine.

"I'm starting to think you wanna get caught," Richie whispered.

Jon gave him a quick squeeze before letting go and stepping back. "Sometimes."

Richie just looked at him, face unreadable. 

"You better put a shirt on," Jon said. "Try to look presentable." He started to back away. "Good thing we both have guitars for the first song."

Richie made a show of eyeing his crotch. "Lucky for you."

Jon smirked. "I'm gonna change. After the show, you wanna …"

Richie lowered his chin, that familiar gleam shining in his eyes, even in the dim light. "Definitely."

Jon automatically licked his lips. "So just one encore then."

That earned him a sly smile. "Definitely."


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was almost like they were in competition -- waiting to see who would call uncle and need to come up for air first. Jon decided it wasn't going to be him.

"So…sometimes?"

"Hmm?" Jon barely registered the question, but he had a good excuse. The weight of Richie's body, and the agonizingly light touch of his lips, was more than a little distracting.

Richie kissed his belly then lifted up. "Sometimes you wanna get caught?"

Jon blinked. He wasn't up for a question-and-answer period at the moment.

He let his head loll to the side and addressed the nightstand. "Uh, yeah. I've thought about it."

He glanced back to Richie, who was studying him, lips pressed together.

Jon sighed testily. "You wanna get back to work? I was kinda into it."

Richie raised an eyebrow. "Kinda?"

Jon had to smile. He loved that he knew just what buttons to push.

"Uh-huh. You should try harder."

He stroked a thumb along the inside of Richie's wrist -- one of his hot spots that Jon had been surprised to discover over the last few months. 

Richie made a soft sound in his throat and inched back up. "Really?" he inquired, gliding his fingertips up the sides of Jon's ribs, before laying a palm over his heart and threading his other hand into his hair.

Jon automatically held his breath. He didn't really want Richie to know how fast his heart was beating already. 

Richie just smiled a little and moved his palm in a slow circle. It was an odd gesture, Jon thought, unsure what to make of it.

"Any time now," he grumbled.

The smile broadened before Richie leaned down and kissed him, all too gently. Out of patience, Jon grasped the back of his head, licking those pliant lips, probing with his tongue.

He almost growled when Richie pulled back and began laying barely-there kisses along his jawline. 

"You've been awfully aggressive lately, Jonny," Richie chastised between pecks.

He paused then shifted so they were eye to eye. "Very Spanish omelet."

Jon huffed in annoyance, and Richie bit his lip, purposely flaunting his dimples -- because that's how he'd gotten away with shit his whole life. It made Jon want to punch him. Sometimes.

"I mean, I like it," Richie assured. "But I like slow, too."

Jon brushed some still-damp hair away from Richie's face then watched it fall again. If there was a slight tremor in his hand, they both ignored it.

"Just remember," he said lowly, "I've been waiting for hours. You started grinding against that guitar pretty early tonight."

Richie smirked. "You're jealous."

"Well, obviously." Jon injected as much sarcasm into the words as he could.

But even as he spoke, he knew the derisive tone was a defense against the bigger truth: He did get a little envious when Richie directed his attention elsewhere. Possibly even a fucking Strat.

Maybe that was self-centered, or controlling, or pathetic, or any of a million other adjectives he could give it. But it was the truth. 

He could acknowledge that for the couple seconds it took Richie to pick up where he left off. And then he could let it go again, his thoughts yielding to sensation -- the calloused but warm hands sliding under his shoulder blades, the moist heat drifting across the pulse point in his neck, down to the base of his throat.

And when that tongue circled one of his nipples, he arched up reflexively, massaging at the nape of Richie's neck to keep him there. It wasn't strictly necessary, since he was clearly in the mood to linger, gently sucking and flicking his tongue. But Jon felt some inexplicable need, in the pit of his belly, to latch onto him.

He shivered when Richie moved away, partly from the cooler air hitting his sensitized skin, partly from the fact that he was moving away.

The feeling passed in a flash, though, because Richie was crawling up again, cupping his face, covering his body in his heat. Moving his lips against Jon's more insistently now, tongue pushing and tasting. 

_Thank fucking god._ Jon swept his palms up and down the smooth damp skin of his back. Tried to draw him impossibly closer.

His hands must've telegraphed the message, because Richie shifted so their legs tangled and his hips pressed forward -- their cocks rubbing together with a friction that lit a flame deep in Jon's pelvis.

He muttered some kind of blasphemy but it was mostly lost, with Richie's mouth still ravaging his like he was trying to steal the air from Jon's lungs. 

And he might have been. Because by the time Richie broke away to nuzzle the side of his neck, Jon was gasping for air, jaw aching. 

He realized then that their shared heat had become stifling. He could feel his own sweat dampening the sheet underneath him. Still, he kept digging his finger pads into that soft flesh, kneading the muscles below, pressing his hips up in rhythmic circles.

It was almost like they were in competition -- waiting to see who would call uncle and need to come up for air first. Jon decided it wasn't going to be him. He could take it.

He gripped Richie's arms and listened to him breathe, each exhale growing sharper and sharper until he finally paused, panting against Jon's shoulder. 

Victory. This time, Jon used his nails to map the arc of Richie's back. "Rich. Can we get on with this?"

He felt a shiver and then the curve of a smile at his cheek. "You have somewhere you need to be?"

Jon pushed up again, grinding his cock against Richie's belly. " _You_ have somewhere you need to be."

Richie's lips grazed his ear. " _You_ need it. Just say it."

Jon's hips responded of their own accord. 

"Fine," he ground out. "I need it." He found Richie's arms again, holding tighter. "Happy?"

"Very." Richie kissed his cheekbone, and it was so incongruously sweet Jon would've laughed if he weren't so fucking charged.

Richie paid one more visit to his lips, another soft connection, before his attention drifted downward -- leisurely tracing a cool, wet line along his ribs, to his hip bone, to his inner thigh. Jon resisted an impulse to grab a handful of that hair, even though Richie really didn't mind that kind of thing.

Still, he couldn't help providing some commentary. "Never would've guessed you're such a cock-tease." 

"Mmm," Richie rumbled against his inner thigh, and Jon jumped a little at the spark that shot into his groin.

Richie lifted his head and grinned in that maddening way he had. "I, on the other hand, am not surprised by your lack of patience."

Jon was about to protest, but then the bastard's tongue was pressing against the base of his cock, and any coherent thoughts disintegrated. 

"Fuck," he gasped, grabbing the sheets. He could almost sense the smugness as Richie drew a slow, broad line up the underneath side of his length before finding his slit with the tip of his tongue.

But he openly groaned anyway, because there was no one to hear it but them.

Dimly, Jon thought he should be used to these sensations by now. After four months, he couldn't count the number of times Richie had done this to him. But somehow each time, he was struck by how different it was compared with the endless procession of women that had come before.

In moments where he was honest, he could admit it wasn't just the physical difference -- the mouth that was large enough to take him in, skilled enough to know exactly what to do.

It was mostly the fact that his best friend -- who knew he was sometimes a neurotic mess underneath the rock-star hair -- actually wanted to do this to him. Do this _with_ him.

Mercifully, Richie got down to it and engulfed him -- cutting off any more epiphanies and the prickly emotions that went with them. Jon could barely breathe, let alone think, with those ridiculous lips working him, tongue dancing in unpredictable patterns.

And then a hand was moving to the back of his thigh, fingers tracing circles there, encouraging him to bring his knee up. He couldn't contain a whimper as those fingertips slid down his inner thigh, thumb finding that spot behind his balls and pressing _up_ with a surety that took Jon's breath away.

"Oh, god," he hissed, digging his heels into the mattress against the shot of electricity surging into his cock.

He scrabbled blindly at Richie's hair because he needed to hold onto something, and almost immediately he knew it wasn't enough. Because that thumb kept playing its torturous strokes, and two fingertips were circling his entrance so lightly it was bizarrely painful.

He tugged on the hair in his hands. "Get up here."

He shuddered as Richie hummed around him, making his reluctance clear before he pulled off and crawled up so they were chest to chest.

Richie looked down expectantly, but Jon could only stare at his lips -- swollen, red and wet from working so hard. He reached up to drag his thumb along the bottom lip, and only then shifted his gaze up.

Richie gave him a half-smile, looking uncertain. "What do you want?"

"I want you in me." Jon was a little surprised at the quick bluntness, but not embarrassed.

Richie's eyes widened as he let out a shaky exhale. "Are you -- are you sure?"

They'd only done it once before, Jon on the receiving end. It had been … weird. But good. He'd been wanting to try it again, and suddenly every cell in his body was screaming _now._

"Absolutely," he said before pulling Richie down into a rather frantic kiss. Again, he felt no shame.

He felt no shame when he flipped onto his belly, or when he began rutting against the pillow under his hips. Or when he almost bit into his own forearm as slicked fingers slid into him.

He needed the closeness, he realized, more than the sex. They could get each other off in any number of interesting ways. What he wanted right now was to have Richie's body as close to his as possible.

He didn't question why. He just knew, in some place deeper than his bones, that he needed it. So when he felt hands on his hips, thumbs massaging along his spine, seeking to ease the muscle tension there -- it was almost more than he could handle.

"Rich."

"OK, baby."

There were some whispered words at his ear, but they barely stood a chance against the sounds of his own moans as that slick tip pressed against him, then eased in. Almost instantly, he pushed back against it, like the connection might disappear if he didn't. 

Richie moved in him slowly, deliberately -- trying so hard not to hurt him, Jon knew. Richie could be a lazy shit in some ways, but in other ways he tried so hard. And it filled Jon with some odd mix of lust and envy.

As they fell into rhythm, Richie's forehead landed on his shoulder. "God, Jonny. You're … _God._ "

He had no voice to answer. Richie's chest was pressed into his back, like a weight, and it was perfect. He just kept pushing back to meet him, again and again -- those beautiful waves spreading through his pelvis each time they found that spot. 

Yet somehow, even that closeness wasn't enough.

Jon twisted his upper body and craned his neck, reaching back to grasp the back of Richie's head, tugging him down for a kiss that was nothing but sloppy and awkward. Still, it felt right.

Especially when Richie snaked a hand around to take hold of his cock, circling his thumb around the tip as he deepened his thrusts. 

"Fuck." Jon had to break the kiss and bury his head into the pillow.

For an instant, he felt a loss. But then Richie pushed his hair aside, sucking and nipping the back of his neck, pausing only to whisper his name. Working that hand the whole time, until Jon was sure he was boneless and they were melting into each other.

And finally, he was close enough.

It only lasted a handful of seconds, of course. All too soon he was coming, and the intensity of the physical pleasure meshed with a vague realization that it was ending. Through his own free-fall, he felt Richie taking his last slow pulses, still whispering Jon's name like a mantra. And it hit his gut with a pain he couldn't immediately understand.

He closed his eyes against it. Tried instead to tune into the feeling of Richie's lips as he kissed his shoulders, his back, his ears.

"I'll get a towel," Richie eventually murmured, before landing one last kiss and rolling off of him. It felt like a shock of cold water.

Jon kept his eyes half-closed and focused on steadying his breath. Even as he carelessly cleaned himself off, even as he felt Richie watching him from where he sat, on the right side of the bed.

Jon tossed the towel aside and looked at the ceiling, waiting for Richie to stretch out beside him -- as he did, slowly, a moment later. Neither one of them spoke, which wasn't unusual. Richie had a penchant for instantly falling asleep, and Jon was prone to ruminating.

That's who they were.

But this time, Richie broke the silence.

"Can I tell you something?" 

Jon felt his gut clench a little. "Hmm?"

"The thing about getting caught…Sometimes I want that, too." He cleared his throat. "It would be, like, a relief in some ways."

Jon kept staring at the nothingness overheard. He wasn't sure what had changed between now and his horny backstage groping hours before. Maybe not that much.

"Yeah," he agreed, hesitantly. "I guess it would."

He sighed and shut his eyes. "But mostly I think it would be a disaster."

There was no answer at first, and Jon let the words hang in the air. 

"Well, yeah," Richie finally said, forcing a little laugh. "I mean…I know."

Jon opened his eyes and glanced to his side. Richie was worrying his lower lip, yet another habit Jon knew well. He scooted over and tossed an arm over Richie's chest, pressing his lips to his cheek -- not kissing him, just touching.

"Will you let me?" he whispered. "Next time, maybe. Would you…"

He felt Richie swallow. "I -- I think so. Yeah."

Jon kept pressing against the warm skin. He didn't mean to push anything, but he wanted to know -- needed to know -- what it would feel like. He'd been thinking about it for a long time, but now there was an urgency building up.

And then something else became clear, as he lay there -- ruminating. He wasn't really afraid that he was boring. He wasn't afraid Richie's eye was wandering. It wasn't anything so simple or specific.

He was just afraid.

He recognized it as a sort of subtle but steady drumbeat of dread he'd felt maybe a couple times in his life. One that reared up when he had something he wanted, but was sure it was so fragile it would inevitably slip away.

He noticed, then, that he had Richie's shoulder in a vise-like grip, and pulled back a bit. "Only if you want to," he said, maybe a full minute too late.

Richie slowly shifted so they were facing each other, and his gaze roamed from Jon's eyes to his lips then back again. "I know."

He furrowed his brow like he was trying to read what he was seeing. So Jon leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. 

"Good," he said as they parted.

Richie reached out to brush his arm. "You OK?"

"Yeah." He paused, scanning Richie's face. "Are you?"

Richie flashed a smile, in that way he did when he was looking for cover. "Sure. I was just worried you…Never mind."

Jon didn't prod because he was happy to let the stilted conversation die. Instead, he tugged on Richie's arm until he was lying partially on top of him, head on his chest. He knew it wasn't a favorite position -- Richie liked to bitch about chest hair in his nostrils -- but right now, Jon needed him there.

And Richie must have sensed that, because he didn't make a sound.

Jon closed his eyes as his fingertips meandered along Richie's arm. He knew there was no way he'd be sleeping that night, but they could stay awake together a little longer.


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then there was Richie's tongue plunging into his mouth, making the whole breathing thing an abstract concept anyway.

Jon stubbed his cigarette out in the middle of his scrambled eggs. They were rubbery and tasted like a burnt pan -- but since he had no appetite, he couldn't work up the will to be mad. Caffeine and nicotine would do the job.

"That's disgusting," Richie observed from his perch on the bed.

Jon folded his legs up onto the chair and looked out the window. "Sorry you had to witness that, sweetheart."

He listened to Richie take a swig of coffee. "I'll be fine. But I would've eaten them."

"I know." Jon kept his eyes on the office tower across the street. This was their last morning in Nashville, and he had one last chance to stare out of this particular window.

The bed shifted and he heard the cup plonk onto the nightstand. "You mind if I shower here?"

Jon shot him a glance. "Go for it. You're pretty ripe."

"Mmm, _that's_ why you're all the way over there." The bed creaked again. "In my defense, I had a very vigorous night."

Jon smiled since his face was obscured. He started to respond but winced instead as the phone rang. He turned just in time to see Richie stretching for the receiver. 

"Hey," he barked, almost vaulting off the chair. "What are you doing?"

Richie held a hand up in apology, but Jon didn't miss the bratty eye-roll. He fixed him with a glare as he walked toward the phone.

Just as he was reaching for it, though, he halted -- realizing he didn't actually want to be available on demand first thing in the morning. Or what passed as "first thing" for them.

Richie raised an eyebrow, and Jon shrugged. "Fuck it."

Richie nodded in approval, then sprawled himself out on the bed, interlacing his hands behind his head. He followed up with a come-hither stare -- worried, apparently, that his body position was too subtle.

Jon felt a flash of arousal and then irritation, and he decided to go with the latter. "Oh, and you're an idiot."

Richie scowled as the ringing finally ceased.

"Seriously," Jon scolded. "You can't just answer my phone like that."

Richie looked toward the ceiling and sighed. "Sorry. Sometimes I forget it's not my room."

Jon just watched him for a few seconds, his aggravation giving way to a twinge of guilt. Sometimes he forgot it wasn't _their_ room, too.

"S'okay," he mumbled. "I just…It would look weird that you're here so early. That's all."

Richie pushed up to sit against the headboard, hugging his knees toward his chest. "You really think it would be a disaster?"

Jon was temporarily thrown, until he remembered his own words from hours before. 

"Well." He crossed his arms, needing a shield. "Yeah. I mean, don't you?"

Richie gave a little shrug. "Maybe. But I was thinking…What if the guys knew? Just them."

Jon felt his throat go dry. "No way -- They'd freak."

Richie brought his knees in a little closer. "You don't know that."

Jon sighed in frustration, at a loss for why Richie was playing dumb -- at too-fucking-early o'clock in the morning.

"No, I do know," he insisted. "They'd lose their shit. Trust me."

"Why?" Richie challenged, though there was uncertainty in his voice. "Why would they even care?"

Jon almost growled. "Because it's --"

He just stopped himself before he said _wrong._ And he tried not to think about why the word even came to him.

"It's what?" Richie prompted.

Jon rubbed at the dull ache building in his temples. "It would be…uncomfortable for them. They already think I treat you differently."

"You do," Richie said simply. "You always have."

Jon aimed his eyes at a random spot on the blanket. He knew it was true, but the truth had become a lot messier lately.

"Yeah," he acknowledged. "But if they knew about us, they'd think" -- He gestured vaguely with his hand -- "You know."

Richie squinted at him. "What? That I slept my way to the top?"

Jon rolled his eyes. "Not exactly." He plopped onto the edge of the bed and angled his head toward Richie without making eye contact. "Just…Please don't tell them."

The plea sounded pathetic, but he didn't care.

When he looked up, Richie's face had softened. "I wouldn't do that. Not if you don't want to."

"Well, I don't," Jon said, his fatigue creeping into his voice. He shook his head. "Why are you even thinking about it?"

Richie shrugged again. "I dunno. I keep thinking…You're already worried Dave thinks something's up. And they've gotta be wondering why we're not hooking up with girls anymore. It's kind of obvious, man."

Jon looked down at his hands. He'd had that same thought a hundred times. But he'd decided to figure it all out whenever he was forced to.

"We can't tell them," he pronounced -- with a finality, he hoped, that would sweep the idea off the table.

Richie dipped his chin. "Fine."

They sat in silence then, and Jon wasn't sure whether he should move closer or away. Richie seemed to be falling into the kind of mood that usually hit _him,_ and it was weird to be on the other side.

"It's just…" Richie began again. "It's getting harder, y'know?"

Jon felt an unease in the pit of his belly.

"I know it sucks to sneak around," he said. "But we've been managing OK."

Again, his own words sounded feeble, but they were all he had.

"Yeah," Richie agreed, slowly. "But I'm not talkin' about sneaking down the hall."

He caught the corner of his lip in his teeth, and Jon could see the thoughts swirling.

Richie kept his eyes averted as he went on. "I mean, when you're with someone, you want everyone to know. Right?" The color started rising in his cheeks. "'Cause you're happy."

Jon could only stare dumbly. If he'd heard right, Richie was basically happy but unhappy. He supposed he could relate to that.

But he couldn't concede anything on this one. _He_ had to worry about what people thought of them, whether Richie liked it or not.

"We can be happy without anyone knowing." He surprised himself a little with the declaration, because he wasn't even sure he believed it.

Richie peered at him. "I guess."

Jon impulsively scooted a little closer. "I mean, you're happy, right? You just said…"

He let the thought trail off, suddenly hating his role in the conversation. He was sounding like a dick, but he had no choice. And he hated that.

He felt a hand on his knee then, and knew his internal monologue was being picked up. Like always.

"Yeah," Richie replied quietly. "I'm happy." 

He kept his eyes on Richie's hand until it slipped away. "Sorry, Jonny. I was just thinking out loud."

Jon shook his head. "No, it's OK." He lifted his gaze. "I'm sorry it has to be like this."

Richie gave him a small smile. "Not your fault…And you're right."

Jon swallowed. He didn't know that he was right, but he didn't want to find out. Not when things were finally taking off, and they all had a tenuous grip on everything they'd been wanting since they were kids.

Or close to everything.

"You forgot to put it on the list, by the way," Richie murmured.

Jon blinked. "Huh?"

"Remember the list you gave me? All the stuff I'm not allowed to do, so we don't get caught?"

_Oh._ It seemed like a long time ago.

"Yeah, I remember." Jon stretched out and landed his head on a pillow. "What about it?"

"You forgot to put, _Don't answer my phone._ So it's your fault."

Jon smiled despite himself. "My apologies. I need to revise that list, don't I?"

"Hmm." 

Richie reached down and began to casually massage his scalp. It was so comfortably couple-y, Jon wanted to remark on it. But then the impulse passed and he closed his eyes instead. It was their last morning in this room, and it was almost over.

******

Jon tried to steady his breathing. The room was stifling and he could already feel sweat gathering at his temples and nape of his neck. It was a futile exercise, though, because his heart was pounding in his ears, his whole body buzzing in anticipation.

And then there was Richie's tongue plunging into his mouth, making the whole breathing thing an abstract concept anyway.

He glided his fingertips down Richie's naked back, skin still warm and soft from the shower. Slid his hands under the waistband of those well-worn sweats, until his fingers skirted Richie's tailbone. He made light circles there, savoring the shudder he got in response.

Jon broke the kiss and pulled his head back, smiling when Richie tried to follow his lips.

"Turn around," he whispered.

Richie made a little whiney sound, but flipped to his side without hesitation, allowing Jon to mold himself against him. Jon exhaled heavily as he pressed his chest into the back of Richie's heart, rolling his burgeoning erection against that same place his fingertips had just teased.

Richie's breath caught, so Jon countered it with soft, slow kisses along the side of his neck -- trying not to push too hard, even though it was agonizing.

He hadn't been inside another body in almost a month, since he'd fucked that tall brunette who'd been nothing but a proxy. It was the longest he'd gone without in years -- and now he was physically aching for it, from a place so deep he hadn't known it existed.

Maybe that was good, he thought. To discover you could feel things so acutely you could hardly stand it. 

He slid his palm across Richie's chest, pausing right over his heart -- mirroring the gesture from the other night. He closed his eyes, because it had always been easier to confess that way.

"God, I want you so bad."

The rhythm under his hand quickened, and Richie made a soft sound in his throat -- some kind of pleasurable distress. 

"Me, too," he said, voice so thick it was barely recognizable.

Jon instinctively pressed a little harder against his tailbone, pulling another one of those sounds.

"You sure?" he murmured, trying to restrain his own feelings on the matter.

That got a frantic nod, and Jon let a soft moan escape before dragging his lips across Richie's upper back to that sweet spot between his shoulder blades.

As he lapped at the salty-sweet skin, he realized Richie was a bundle of nerves, responding to each feathery touch with a little gasp or quiver. Jon knew exactly how he felt: The first time Richie did this to him, the mix of arousal and anxiety had been borderline overwhelming -- amplifying every little physical sensation till it felt like all his nerve endings were frayed.

So he tried to slow down, to rein in his own impatient nature, so it wasn't too much too soon.

He crawled back up and mouthed the shell of Richie's ear. "Hey. OK?"

Richie didn't answer. He simply wriggled under Jon's weight and managed to turn onto his back before pulling him down for a greedy kiss.

And then his hands were suddenly everywhere -- gripping the back of Jon's head, skimming up his arms to grasp his shoulders, sliding down his bare back to yank his waistband down as far as he could manage with their bodies crushed together.

When he started to massage Jon's ass, rolling his hips up as he did, all thoughts of taking it slow evaporated.

Jon openly groaned into his mouth before drawing back in the name of oxygen -- just enough to see Richie staring up at him, eyes black and cheeks flushed. He had to glance away. He couldn't catch his breath with Richie looking at him that way.

He flinched when he felt fingertips floating along his triceps. 

"Jonny?"

He closed his eyes and buried his head in the curve of Richie's neck. "Tell me if it gets to be too much, OK?"

Richie brought his palms to Jon's back, drawing soothing circles. And the absurdity of it -- that _he_ was the one being comforted -- wasn't lost on him.

Richie kissed his temple. "It's supposed to be too much."

Jon was frozen for a moment as his stomach dropped and a prickling sensation ran through his skin. But only for a moment. Then he was fumbling for the lube and condom he'd placed at the edge of the bed because Richie had told him tonight was the night -- though somehow, he still couldn't quite believe it.

Even when Richie rolled onto his side and pulled his knees up for him. Even when he actually let Jon's slicked fingers trace a path between his balls and his entrance -- wincing and shivering a couple times, but not pulling away.

Even when he gasped as Jon slid the first finger in.

Jon landed his lips on a random patch of skin. "Shh. You're fine."

"I know."

Jon moved to kiss his jawline. "Remember when I did this before?" He smiled against his cheek. "You fucking loved it." 

"I know," Richie repeated, a breathless edge to his voice. "Maybe if you do it instead of talking about it…"

Jon's smile broadened. He was glad Richie still had enough wits about him to be a bitch.

He rewarded him by pushing in deeper to hunt for that spot -- knowing he'd hit it when Richie arched his spine and a planted a palm on the bed in front of him, moaning lowly from deep in his chest.

Normally, Jon would want to say something smug. But right now, he was too caught up in the knowledge that _he_ was doing this, stirring those sounds, making that body writhe shamelessly. 

Too caught up in that now-familiar craving to get closer.

He laid a few kisses along Richie's shoulder, nuzzling his hair before moving to his ear again. "Ready, baby?"

"God, yes."

Jon trembled at the blatant want, so violently he was sure Richie felt it. He covered by encouraging him onto his belly, only to be met with resistance.

"No. I wanna see you."

Richie's voice cracked on the last word, and an odd sensation, warm but painful, spread across Jon's chest. He could only nod and reach for a pillow -- unable to speak because this _thing_ was clamped around his heart and lungs, and he didn't know what it was.

He leaned over Richie, looking at the sweat-dampened locks of hair plastered to his forehead -- wondering how he was going to do this with those eyes seeing into him. And then he felt Richie's ankles wrap around his hips, and for a second he thought he might collapse under the weight.

"Oh, fuck," he breathed as he slowly pushed in.

Richie hissed and grasped his shoulders, and Jon stilled, waiting for him to relax -- or give him some sign to keep going. Because he _needed_ to keep going.

"OK?" 

Richie nodded, breathing hotly against his cheek. Jon pushed a little farther then paused again, resting their foreheads together so they were panting into each others' mouths. 

"Jonny…"

He thought there would be more, but that was all -- and he realized that was all he needed. 

So he began to move again, till he was finally submerged in a slick, taut heat that almost stole his breath. 

"Christ," he wheezed. "God, Rich…"

Maybe it was partly the dry spell, but he was sure this was different from anything he'd physically felt before. The squeezing in his chest hadn't let up, but it was background noise to the searing pleasure below. 

Mindlessly, he swiped at the damp-dark hair around Richie's eyes -- suddenly needing to see them now. He only caught a glimpse, how they were wet and shining in the lamp light, before they shut tightly, and a groan -- drawn-out and baritone -- bubbled from Richie's chest.

The sound spurred Jon to instinctively thrust harder, knocking them both a couple inches up the mattress. Richie grabbed at the sheets for leverage and pushed back against him with a choked sob -- and something about the combined aggression and vulnerability sent a charge through Jon's entire body.

"Fuck," he gasped. "I can't…"

He had no clue what he'd intended to say, losing his words to the intense waves rolling through him as Richie kept pushing back.

"God." He blindly grabbed at Richie's hair with one hand, and dragged his other thumb across his cheek -- pulling the skin of his slack jaw and distorting his face.

Jon decided he looked weirdly beautiful that way. He could say things like that in his head.

By degrees, he became aware that the bed was in a continuous whine, and Richie was falling apart, his moans growing more and more reckless. He also recalled, dimly, that Dave was staying in the room next door.

He kissed a soft patch of skin below Richie's ear. "Shh," he whispered again.

It was little use, though, because Richie seemed to be in an advanced state of possession. And then Jon remembered something else: Richie had never felt anything like this before, either.

So he let go of any idea of quieting him. This was all that mattered right now anyway.

The closeness. The connection that only intensified when he felt four limbs wrapping solidly around him, pulling him impossibly deeper, until it seemed fine to be suffocating.

And when Richie's teeth grazed his shoulder then softly bit down, it seemed fine to be drained of everything he had, have it poured into someone else.

Richie was shaking with him, arching into him, crushing him -- and the heat between them was so uncomfortable, Jon knew it would be a physical relief to separate. But he didn't want to. If he could choose, he'd choose this particular discomfort every time.

When he finally came, it was the most cutting pleasure-pain he'd ever felt.

In the minutes afterward, Richie didn't relinquish his hold, even though they were both gulping for air. Even though the mess between them was less than sensual. He eased his grip only when Jon finally needed to pull out -- and then quickly reined him back in, fingertips drawing random shapes in the sheen of sweat on his back. 

Jon kept his head nestled in the crook of Richie's neck, inhaling his scent, which seemed different now.

"You OK?"

"Mmm."

The fingertips kept meandering, but more lightly, and Jon sensed they were both going to pass out soon.

"Lemme clean you up."

Richie made a sound of protest but seemed too tired to cling much longer, and Jon was able to slip away to grab the ever-present towel. As he ran it over Richie's belly and chest, he swore he heard a purr, and he smiled a little.

He lay back down, curling into Richie's side.

"Sure you're OK?"

"I'm sure."

He watched Richie's chest rise and fall, then took a deep breath. "Thank you."

There was a pause and then a soft kiss at his hairline.

He laid his palm on Richie's belly. "We can be happy like this." He focused on the rise and fall of his own hand now. "Don't you think?"

Richie slid a hand onto his. "Yeah." A moment later, he intertwined their fingers. "Yeah."

Jon kissed his shoulder. He knew that sooner or later, it wouldn't be true anymore. But right now, it was. So he squeezed his eyes shut and held on.

END


End file.
